By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
When The Bitch tracked down Corbea, he referred her to his lawyer, but owing to the fact that his eyes were swollen shut, he couldn't read the attorney's phone number to her from a business card.
El-Masry has this to say: "The whole thing is completely bullshit. The guy is a fucking liar and a thief who was caught red-handed stealing from me. He is going to be charged with filing a false police report and 46 counts of grand theft. I mean it's fucking nonsense, laughable really. I have hours worth of video surveillance and I can prove I never touched the guy."
Free on $12,500 bail, El-Masry adds he expects the State Attorney's Office to see things his way and drop the charges. The Bitch thinks "Mr. Marcelino's" has a nice ring to it.
Dress for Every Situation
The Bitch often sighs sadly about the small size and insular nature of Miami's gothic-industrial music community (described in detail by Ted B. Kissell in "Coffin Classics" in October 2004); nothing here comes close to Tampa's fabled gothic gathering place The Castle. Nonetheless, what the scene lacks in population it makes up for in individual profile and ingenuity. Catherine Kunt, who with partner (and baby daddy of Mirabelle Isabella) Carlos Saint Germain is one of this area's main crypt keepers, became richer by five large on February 1 when she sold the rights to use her breasts as a billboard for Internet casino GoldenPalace.com.
Kunt made the sale via auction on eBay, where her user profile reveals her to be an omnivorous Web trader whose recent purchases have included a Lucite-encased scorpion and a case of Similac baby formula.
Saint Germain and Kunt will bring their passion for black to a new party called Shattered Heart the second Friday of each month beginning this week at I/O. Saint Germain along with Danny Bled and Dracula's Daughter will be the DJs. Perhaps Kunt's newfound fame -- she's been interviewed on several radio stations and on the BBC regarding the cleavage rental -- will bring out the notoriously fickle and cheap goth crowd.
The Bitch cannot extend a hearty welcome to the Miami Heat's newest acquisition, six-foot-eight forward Qyntel Woods. Although the 24-year-old single-handedly makes up for the recent deficit of criminally minded players on South Florida sports teams (as lamented of late in this column), he's on the wrong side of an important distinction.
Sports journalists tend to lump players with minor marijuana arrests or drunk-in-public citations with those whose crimes ooze true sadism. The Bitch just can't slap the same "troubled sports star" label on, say, Lamar Odom, who liked to get high every now and then and got busted a couple times, and Woods, who was released from the Portland Trailblazers January 21 after pleading guilty to animal-abuse charges in Oregon.
The Jailblazers are desperately trying to rehabilitate their image following a string of player arrests, and they jettisoned Woods after he was seen abandoning his bleeding pit bull in an alley. Police subsequently searched his home and found evidence that Woods was having dog fights in a room above his garage. Needless to say, this is the sort of thing that makes The Bitch froth at the mouth.
Woods used to be an amusing knucklehead, best known for handing over a trading card (of himself) to a Broward County cop who pulled him over in March 2003. Now he's the jerk who had the nerve to release the following statement after pleading guilty to misdemeanor animal abuse: "I've tried to be a responsible pet owner all of my life. Because of that I am very sorry and saddened that my dog, Hollywood, was injured." Woods, who earns one million dollars a season, also donated $10,000 to the Humane Society. He has started his tenure with the Heat by serving a five-game suspension not for ditching the dog but for violating the NBA's drug policy.
Empty by Definition
The time has come for a reappreciation of the hyperintelligent concept album based in equal parts upon deconstructionist theory and mythology, Cupid & Psyche '85 by Scritti Politti, essentially the monolithic project of Kant-quoting, wide-brimmed-hat-wearing, harmfully romantic recluse Green Gartside. Released as a St. Valentine's Day depth charge twenty years ago, what both dates C&P and marks it as a classic are not Green's Motown-rooted falsetto or dense, sweeping synthesizer arpeggios, but his pre-age-of-irony transparency.
Green seemed to realize that the erudite pedestal-placing of "Absolute" would ultimately be perceived as lamely naive. Doomed to a continued existence as a mere disillusioned mortal, Green did a Robert Walser-like retreat from public existence, returning to the Welsh countryside, where he still lives in seclusion.
Interestingly, one of his fans was Miles Davis, who called Green "a genius and a traveler" and covered Cupid & Psyche's first single, "Perfect Way," on The Complete Miles Davis at Montreux 1973-1991. Not exactly a red-and-pink construction paper cutout, but a decent and lasting Valentine nonetheless.
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